


500 Miles

by cutloosemcgoose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bachelorette AU, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, STDs, Sex with multiple partners, Shaming language, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutloosemcgoose/pseuds/cutloosemcgoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here, have 1700 words of a Teen Wolf Bachelorette AU, because I just rewatched the movie and went, "You know who would make a great Gena and Clyde? Stiles and Derek!" </p><p>(Lydia is Reagan, Erica and Boyd are getting married, and Allison used to cheat off Scott's Spanish homework, but she doesn't remember him)</p><p>Title is from the Proclaimers' "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	500 Miles

**Author's Note:**

> How could I not?
> 
> Stiles: [to the cabbie] Sir! Sir, I will suck your dick if you get us there in two minutes.  
> Derek: Look, look, I think we might be meant for each other. And I am not kidding-  
> Stiles: Scratch that, this guy will suck your dick.  
> Derek: Look and it's not just because we have like the greatest sex-woah! See, your body looks so great.  
> Stiles: Shut up!  
> Derek: I love your body.
> 
> If you've already seen the movie, you know the warnings. If not, references to underage sex (Stiles is sixteen and Derek is eighteen at the time); drug use and abuse (cocaine, LSD); sex with many partners (Stiles), shaming language (Derek towards Stiles); strippers; and STDs (herpes).

When they get off the F train in Forest Hills, it’s already two AM and Stiles is cursing Lydia, Allison, and his entire existence as he struggles to carry Erica’s lace monstrosity down the street without stepping on it again.

Derek leads him down the same familiar avenues to his old house, which looks so exactly the same as it did ten years ago that it gives Stiles whiplash. “Please don’t tell me you still live at home, that is beyond sad,” he tells Derek. “I’m suddenly so glad we broke up.”

“Funny,” Derek says. “I have an apartment in midtown. And I dumped you, as you like to keep reminding me.”

“Oh yeah, how could I ever forget,” Stiles hisses. “There were only seven hundred witnesses, in case I ever needed a reminder.”

Derek sighs. “Can we not—do this now, please?”

“Whatever,” Stiles says. “Let’s get this over with.”

Derek unlocks the door and Stiles doesn’t know if it's all the coke or maybe the LSD he tried in college, but he feels like he’s in the middle of a flashback in the Hales’ front hall and he is freaking out. He hyperventilates a little and tries not to let it show, but judging by the look Derek’s giving him, he isn’t too successful.

“What the—” he hears from the top of the stairs and then a light clicks on and Talia is standing on the second floor, squinting down at them. “Derek? What are you doing here?”

“Hi, mom,” Derek says, sounding like he’s eighteen again and trying to sneak Stiles into his bedroom. “Do you remember—”

“Stiles,” Talia says. “How could I forget? You look like you haven’t eaten anything since the last time I saw you.” She frowns at Derek like it’s his fault. Ha. “Why are you here at two o’clock in the morning?”

Derek shoves Stiles—and the wedding dress— in front of him. Coward. “It’s a really long story, Mrs. Hale, but we need your help. Erica’s wedding dress is, um, it’s pretty much destroyed, but I remembered that you made all of the school play costumes and Laura’s prom dress—”

“And Derek’s tux,” Talia adds, coming down the stairs and fingering the material of the dress. “Is this— is this _blood_?”

“Really, really long story,” Stiles says quickly. “Is there any way—”

“When—wait, did you say Erica? As in, the Erica Reyes whose wedding I’m attending tomorrow?”

“Today, actually,” Derek says, and Stiles shoots him a death glare before giving Talia his most charming smile.

She stares at him for a second before sighing, looking just like Derek when he’s frustrated. “Derek, put on a pot of coffee and get breakfast started. It’s going to be a long night.”

Derek makes omelettes, chopping onions and peppers and mushrooms, like he actually remembers how Stiles likes his eggs. Stiles tries to ignore the sight of Derek, all grown up and filled out, his shoulders so broad they seem to take up half the kitchen. He fiddles with his phone, starts texting this guy, Connor, who can always get Stiles good drugs. They fucked once or twice. He thinks.

“Who are you texting?” Derek asks, dropping a plate in front of Stiles and putting his own across the kitchen island. Stiles looks down at the omelette, complete with buttered rye toast next to it. He can’t remember the last time someone made him breakfast. It was probably Derek, maybe a week before he dumped Stiles.

“This dealer I know,” Stiles says absently, pushing the food around with his fork. “I think I can get back some of that coke I gave your stripper friend, you’re welcome, by the way—”

Derek snatches the phone out of his hand and, before Stiles can even open his mouth, he’s opened the back door and hurled it outside. Derek was on the varsity baseball team and Stiles hears a distant crack as his iPhone collides with something, probably a tree, at ninety miles an hour.

“What the fuck was that,” Stiles shouts, jumping to his feet. “Are you insane, that was my fucking phone!” Derek doesn’t say anything, just stands there glaring and looking furious, so Stiles slams his fists into his chest, shoves him backwards. “Answer me, asshole!”

Derek grabs him by the wrists. “You need to stop it.”

“Stop what!”

“All of this. It’s not cute anymore, okay?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“This, this drugged-up, party boy routine. You’re not twenty anymore, you’re an adult. Start acting like it.”

Stiles wrenches his arms out of Derek’s grasp. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. It’s none of your business if I want to snort a pound of coke and fuck every guy in L.A.”

“You realize that you’re seven hours away from ruining Erica’s wedding because you can’t handle your own shit, right? And just like always, you expect me to—bail you out of it.”

“I didn’t see you bailing me out when you gave me fucking herpes!” Stiles shouts.

The kitchen is absolutely silent. So is the rest of the house, in fact, which probably means that Talia heard, too. Derek is breathing hard, fists clenched at his side.

“Yeah, you want to talk about bailing me out, having my back?” Stiles says quietly. “Let’s talk about that time you gave me an STD and then ditched me when I needed you the most.”

“That wasn’t—”

“You know what? Forget it,” Stiles says. “Ancient history, right? It doesn’t matter. Let’s just—get through this fucking day and then we never have to see each other again.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, walks into the living room and leaves Derek standing alone with the uneaten food.

He reads on the couch for an hour, Derek’s beat-up, old copy of Neuromancer. Around 3:30, Derek brings him a cup of coffee. When he takes a sip, he can taste the almond milk.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, watching him carefully. Stiles eyes him over the rim of his mug. “I didn’t mean to—you can do whatever you want.”

“Gee, thanks for the stamp of approval,” Stiles says. “No, wait,” he relents, when Derek makes to stand up. “It’s—thanks. And thanks for the coffee.”

Derek shrugs. “You’re welcome. I’m going to go upstairs for a while.”

Stiles puts the book down and stretches a little. “Okay, let’s go. What?” he asks, when Derek just stares at him.

Derek snorts. “You still act like you live here.”

Stiles has the good grace to blush a little. “I practically did, in high school.”

“I know,” Derek says. “It’s just funny to watch.”

The sewing machine is still going in Talia’s room when they walk by. Derek closes the door to his bedroom and Stiles flops down on the twin bed. Derek’s room looks just like it did in high school. Being in this house again is a total mind fuck, Stiles feels like he’s an awkward eighteen year-old again.

He lounges on the bed, watching Derek fiddle with the knickknacks on his desk and rifle through his drawers. “Anything good?” he asks. Derek tosses him a yo-yo, an original Nintendo Gameboy, and a framed picture of their group back in high school. It’s junior prom. Lydia has an atrocious perm, but is faking a smile; Allison looks like she’s already drunk, leaning on her date for support; and Erica and Boyd have their arms wrapped around each other, the only normal-looking ones in the photo, even though Erica’s acne is visible and Boyd has a terrible mustache.

Derek and Stiles are there, too, off to one side: Stiles shirt is untucked, because they fucked in the Camaro on their way to the banquet hall. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face and Derek is blushing, because Stiles is grabbing his ass. He thinks they were probably tipsy at this point, too.

When he looks up, Derek is watching him. He doesn’t try to hide it, just stares at Stiles the way he used to, when they were younger, like Stiles is a mystery he can’t figure out. It makes Stiles feel uncomfortable, itchy under his skin in a way that he doesn’t want to think about. He remembers, suddenly, how many times they had sex on this very bed, maybe even this same set of sheets; all of a sudden, all he can see is his skinny, sixteen year-old self, sucking Derek’s dick, having no idea what he was doing but loving it, the way Derek had gripped the sheets and choked out his name, the way he’d groaned like he was dying when he came down Stiles’ throat.

He snaps back to the present when Derek sits on the bed next to him. Stiles knows he’s blushing horribly, but he can’t help it, not when Derek’s thigh is pressed tight next to his. He clears his throat, trying to get himself under control.

“So,” he says, trying to think of something, anything to say that isn’t, “I really miss having sex with you, I’d totally give you a ten blowjob right now if you let me.”

“Genim,” Derek says softly, leaning in a little. Stiles recoils.

“I told you, don’t call me that,” he snaps, and there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there a minute ago. Derek looks mad, then determined.

“Genim—”

“Stop it—”

“Gen—”

“Seriously, Derek, shut up—”

“Genim,” Derek says, one more time before he leans in and kisses Stiles, reaching one hand up to cup his jaw, to hold him in place while Derek slots their mouths together. Stiles’ lips part of their own accord, and then he’s reaching up to tangle his hands in Derek’s hair while they make out and roll around the bed like teenagers again.

The first time, Stiles comes before he even gets out of his pants, but that’s okay, because Derek does, too. After that, he pretty much loses track of anything that’s not Derek’s mouth, hands, or his dick.

When Stiles wakes up, he bolts upright, panting. Next to him, Derek cracks one eye open. “You still do that?” he asks, sounding disgruntled.

Stiles isn’t even listening. The clock reads 6:45 AM. “Up, up,” he says, scrambling for his clothes and throwing Derek his pants. “The wedding.”

“Shit,” Derek says eloquently.

Stiles just remembers to grab the dress— now thankfully in one piece— before they run out the front door. He’s got just under four hours to get his shit together and fix this. He can do it. He’s going to show Derek.


End file.
